


day five and fifty

by brokendrums



Category: Blur (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 09:16:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14691048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokendrums/pseuds/brokendrums
Summary: Graham and Damon figure things out after five days in Hong Kong.





	day five and fifty

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a comment made by either Graham or Damon about the last day of their trip to Hong Kong. Sticks pretty close to the timeline of events from Hong Kong to Magic Whip but there might be a little deviation.

The knock on the door shakes him out of his thoughts. 

Well, it’s more of a thump of an angry fist than a knock and it gives away who it is immediately. 

No one else would have bothered coming to find him. 

“Graham!” Damon’s voice is sharp. Even through the thick door, it’s a tone not to be argued with. 

It makes Graham’s stomach knot itself tighter. He groans, tugging on the long hair of his fringe. It’s not making the situation any better. 

The fist lands on the door again, harder this time. Graham wonders, for a split moment, if he opened the door would the fist collide with his face. 

It wouldn’t be the first time. 

Graham reaches for the door before Damon can shout his name again. He’s making an awful racket, probably drawing the attention of half the other residents of their hotel floor. 

“What are you doing?” Damon asks, his eyes narrowing. He looks beyond pissed off, nearly vindicated in his anger. He’s turned a sort of sickly sort of tan the past few days in the muggy sunshine, his cheeks warm but below his eyes sunken and dark and it makes him look older, more weathered. Anger is more visible in the dip of his brow, the lines around his eyes. 

“Nothing,” Graham says defensively. 

Damon’s eyes narrow. “I can fucking see that. We’ve been waiting on you.”

Graham turns his face away but he still catches how Damon rolls his eyes. 

“We’re not doing this again,” he tells him, reaching for Graham’s arm. “Look, you’re dressed and ready to go.” He lets out a laugh -- nearly disbelieving. “What the fuck have you been waiting on?”

Graham can’t really answer him. He _hasn’t_ been doing anything. Literally. He’s been sitting on the end of his hotel bed and staring at the beige carpet, his limbs heavy like he wouldn’t be able to move them even if he wanted to. 

“Overslept,” Graham lies. Damon scoffs softly but doesn’t say anything. 

“Hurry the fuck up,” Damon mutters and leaves the room, leaving the door open behind him. 

Graham swallows around the dryness in his throat and gets up to follow him. 

Damon’s mood deepens on the long commute across Hong Kong to the studio. He’s sat a seat away from him, the empty space between them seeming bigger and bigger as the train turns a corner. Graham had gotten used to having him pressed up against his arm the past few days, his bag tucked between their shins, Damon’s shoulder heavy against them as they leaned into the rock of the subway. 

Across from them, Alex is looking at him from under his fringe. Graham offers him a weak smile and looks away before he can see if Alex returns it. The rest of them had been waiting in the hotel lobby, empty coffee cups spread between them on the low table they were gathered round. Damon had walked straight past them, Graham following him with his head down. He’d seen the raised eyebrows, the thin press of lips as they grimaced at each other. 

The studio is stifling hot. There’s no air conditioning and it’s as hot and humid as outside. A tiny window running along the juncture of the wall and ceiling just spills light into the room, the buzzing fluorescent bulbs above making it bright enough to see. 

Damon’s already pulling his jacket off as he steps over leads and abandoned keyboards. Their engineer glances up from the magazine he’s reading and Graham doesn’t meet his eyes, just follows Damon across the cramped room to where he had left his guitars last night. 

They work on something from Damon’s iPad, the sounds of drum machine and fake keys coming out of the grainy speaker worn from use. Graham listens, closes his eyes and tips his head back. 

His mind’s gone blank, his fingers clumsy on the fret. He’s not sure if he can add anything to this, all of it sounding so far removed from what he wants to play today. He kind of wants to jump up and down on a carpeted plywood stage and scream at the top of his lungs, his hand going a mile a minute over the strings as he stomps on a distortion pedal. He wants to play something ugly, something to just fill the buzzing between his ears with rough, brutal noise. 

Damon’s talking about the beat, getting more and more animated as Alex starts fiddling with a baseline. It’s loping along, steady and mellow. Something that reminds Graham of setting out for a long walk on a Sunday in summer, of the winding lanes down in Kent. Of those moods that come over him when it’s sunny out, warm until late in the evening and he wouldn’t mind unwinding with a glass of something stronger than red grape Shloer.

He picks his way up the fret, his eyes mostly still closed. It doesn’t really fit with what he’s thinking off, too clunky and disjointed from the rest of the beat that Alex is still playing. He keeps playing for a few minutes, deviating further and further away from the keyboard template still playing from the iPad. 

When he opens his eyes, Alex is watching him, his face dipped in concentration as he tries to follow along. It sends a wave of heat over his face -- he hadn’t realised that they were taking his lead. 

His eyes flit unconsciously over to where Damon’s sitting, his own guitar on his knee. He’s sitting back in his chair, a frown on his face. Graham can tell instantly that this isn’t what he had imagined for this demo and it makes Graham’s fingers slip, the bum notes sounding brash through the amp they’ve hooked him up to. 

Alex falters too but then picks up the baseline again, his fingers moving as if it never happened. Graham isn’t so lucky. He’s overthinking it, his fingers feeling fat on the fret. 

It happens the rest of the afternoon, Graham seemingly on a different wavelength to everyone else in the room. He riffs off at the wrong moments, hits a repetition when it’s not needed. Damon tries for some lyrics, humming melodies into the microphone as Graham completely destroys them to his left. 

His neck hurts from stooping over his guitar and refusing to look up at everyone, his mood descending deeper and deeper as the day wears on. 

“Anyone want a cup of tea?” Dave asks, giving up on playing the drums on a jam that’s starting to sound awful again. 

Alex says something, leaning back in his chair. He’s on one of the wheelie ones from the mixing desk and he spins, his head hanging over the back of it and his legs sprawled out in front of him. Damon doesn’t answer, just curls over his iPad again, tapping away at something. The light of the screen catches under his chin and makes him look gaunt.

Dave laughs, his gaze darting over to Damon and Graham at the back of the room before looking away again. 

“Need a smoke,” Graham mutters and then he’s out the door before anyone can offer to join him. 

The air outside is still as close and clammy. The humidity is making his hair stick to his neck, the shirt to his back. He finds a corner shop down the adjacent street and buys a packet of cigarettes and a lighter in an awkward mix of English and pointing, feeling awful as he hands over a card so he doesn’t have to deal with currency. 

There’s an old electrical fan on behind the cashier’s shoulder but it seems to be on the slowest setting, wobbling as it slowly makes its way round to waft warm air in his face. 

When he emerges, Damon’s standing a few feet away looking up and down the street for him. 

“What are you doing?” Damon asks as soon as he spots him, both of them sticking out like a sore thumb. 

Graham lights the cigarette. “Smoking,” he says, waving his hand about. He throws the packet at him and Damon doesn’t catch them, the aim off. They bounce off his hip into the space between them and Graham stoops awkwardly to pick them up, his fingers shaking and palms sweaty. 

“I care too much about you to let you fuck this up again,” Damon says, sounding angry. He’s forgone all formalities now, just getting stuck into the issue at hand. 

Graham swallows down the urge to shout something stupid back at him. It nearly takes all his resolve. It’s like they’re back to being fucking twenty-five and that’s all they knew how to do. 

Graham turns away from him, can’t look at his face and be reminded of the past. The frustration sits heavy on his shoulders and smoking for once isn’t helping it melt away. “I’m not trying to fuck it up again,” Graham says, as quiet as he can and still be heard over the bustle of the street around him. “It’s just coming out like that.”

“What are you talking about?” Damon sighs. He sounds frustrated too. Graham looks at his toes. 

“I’m dragging it all down,” Graham groans. “None of it is good.”

“It _is_ good,” Damon said, his voice strained behind him. The street is too busy for this type of argument. Graham refuses to look at him and then Damon’s fingers are clenching in the fabric of his t-shirt to tow him around. “But I’m not here to fucking hold your hand. When are you going to hear that it’s good yourself?”

Graham tugs out of his grip, avoids his gaze. “It’s just hard being like that. Just fucking about on the guitar and making sure that it’s good _enough_.”

“We’ve heard worse.”

Graham bites at his cuticle. That doesn’t make him feel better. 

It’s too intense. They haven’t had this amount of time together -- _just_ the four of them and a few engineers, Mike and Smog and the techs they’ve hired for this tour. Before, it was an album a week in a rehearsal studio and a few warm up shows interspersed between going home to your own bed and getting up for the school run in the morning. 

He hadn’t had to deal with Damon’s bedhead, how cranky he is in the morning, the heat of a cup of tea as they pass it from palm to palm.

They’ve fucked about at soundcheck. An experimental riff here or there, a new ending to an old song but never taking ideas that Damon’s been sitting on, thinking on, and trying to mould them into something from the both of them.

“Well,” Graham says, words rushing out of his mouth through his fingertips. It makes him sound petulant, young. He can’t stop biting at them though. “Last time it was so shit, I didn’t get invited back.”

Damon’s shoulders fall and Graham immediately regrets it. He tugs on his hair and turns away from him again. He’s twisting the truth and he knows that Damon can see it. 

“Fuck,” Graham swears under his breath. 

“You don’t need an invite,” Damon says, his voice oddly calm. Graham looks up and wishes that he wasn’t wearing tinted glasses. He wants to see if Damon’s taking the piss or not. What he can see of his face is too neutral, too poised. Years of keeping stoic during interviews and meetings practise for times like these. “And I thought we were done with all that bullshit.”

“We are,” Graham admits, swallowing down the anxious lump in his throat. “We are. Sorry.”

Damon claps him on the shoulder and pushes him back towards the door to the studio. People are starting to look at them, vendors of nearby stalls, people hanging about in doorways to shops. It makes Graham feels self conscious as Damon wheels him back into the building. 

Inside is still as hot, the lights setting the corridor a funny colour. Graham blinks furiously as they head back up the stairs. 

“I don’t want to just fuck about,” Damon says suddenly as they turn the corner to the studio they’re using. He turns his head to look at Graham and they’re so close that Graham can see his eyes through the tinted lens. “I’m not doing this without you again. I wouldn’t be here if you’re not here too.”

Graham swallows, speechless. There’s more pressure squeezing at his insides at that information but it feels different than before. This time it’s weighted by Damon’s stare and the hand that’s still somehow clamped over his shoulder. 

He thinks of the albums worth of stuff he’s got gathering dust back on his hard-drive at home, all of it falling short of his expectations. Thinks of how it feels all a bit hollow now without Damon’s input, Alex and Dave a building rhythm under his guitar. 

This is what he wants and he doesn’t know why he’s fucking it up when it’s finally given to him. 

“Me too,” Graham replies, even though it’s not really a response. Damon understands anyway, nodding. His shoulder brushes Graham’s chest as he goes for the door. 

Dave looks up when they push back into the room, his face unflinchingly curious.

Alex is in the corner, curled over his bass and doesn’t even bother. “Think we should start into something new?” he asks his strings, his hair falling over his face so he looks twenty again. 

Graham is, once again, relieved at how easy he can take the tension out of the room. It makes him drop his shoulders as he shuffles further into the room. Behind him, Damon makes a show of picking up his guitar again, stepping over Dave’s makeshift drum kit. 

“Yes, Alex,” Damon intones, taking up his spot back on the bench behind all of his gadgetry. “Wonderful idea.”

Graham feels marginally better on the train home. They’ve left it a little bit later today, filing into the subway with a rush of commuters. It’s hot and sticky, the air stifling around them. 

Graham and Damon push down into a corner so they’re not in the way of the doors, losing Alex and Dave somewhere in the crush. The carriage shakes and rolls as they wind through tunnels and sink underground. 

Damon’s hand finds Graham’s wrist, fingers curling under the cuff of his jacket and pressing against the veins there. When Graham looks up, Damon’s watching him, his face guarded under the blue tinted lenses. 

“Today was good?” Graham asks, suddenly unsure again. 

The smile breaks over Damon’s face slowly and lets out a huff of derisive laughter. “When we finally got going.”

Graham knows he means it as a joke, something to brush over the unease there but Graham still feels a stab of guilt. Damon squeezes his wrist as if he knows. 

He keeps his hand there until the crush of people lessens and they shuttle towards their home stop. Graham can see a seat beside where Dave and Alex are chatting but he doesn’t move, pinned by Damon’s hand, warm around his wrist. 

Graham leans into it. The jerk of Damon’s head shows he realises that Graham isn’t pressing against him because of other commuters. Graham stays there, smiling when Damon presses back. 

It prickles at his neck, the idea that someone’s watching them. They’re mostly anonymous in Hong Kong -- Graham is just about most places he goes -- but they don’t really do this anymore, don’t lie across each other on shitty tour buses, sling each other’s arms around each other in the corner of a crusty pub or pretend-hold-hands when they walk down the street. 

The train jerks to a stop and Damon pulls away. His hand lingers at the delicate bone in Graham’s wrist and then he’s sweeping out the automatic door in a rush of people. Graham blinks, the moment’s hesitation meaning that he has to push against the wave of people now taking their turn to enter the train.

“Nearly lost you again, Gra,” Dave smirks when he finally reaches the platform. He can see the hunched shoulders of Damon in the distance, Alex loitering between the both of them as if he’s unsure of who to walk with. He huffs a sigh when Dave says that, rolling his eyes and turning to catch up with Damon. 

Dave looks vaguely embarrassed for a moment before he turns to follow them, leaving Graham to lag behind the rest of the way back to the hotel. 

*

He takes his time in the shower when he gets back to his room. The TV is mindless noise, too much chatter and flashing clips of news so he turns it off and manages to get something decent to play on his phone from the side of his bed. 

He scrubs hotel shampoo through his hair and stands under the water until his fingertips feel wrinkled. 

He dresses quickly, feeling out of sorts being naked for too long outside the comfort of his own bedroom. The room is nice, the bed soft when he sprawls out across it but it’s nothing like his own at home. He finds himself staring at the ceiling for a while, his mind so full that it feels blank. 

He’s late for dinner but no one’s rung him yet, his phone still playing music quietly beside an empty bottle of water under the lamp. He figures Damon isn’t going to come running for him this time so he heaves himself off the bed and manages to get out of the hotel room. 

They’re already gathered in the hotel restaurant by the time Graham gets down to the lobby. He can hear the chatter of them when he peers through the wide entrance, a cluster of tables pulled close so the whole team are together. 

A waiter is filling someone’s wine glass and Graham can see the shuffle of elbows as they all eat. He turns automatically, heading for the lifts again. He doesn’t blame them for starting without him -- they were late back to the hotel after all, he didn’t expect them to wait that long just for him. 

He’ll just order from room service, probably prefers it that way if he really had to be honest anyway. He isn’t in the mood to make conversation.

“Graham!” 

Graham sighs to himself and jabs his fingers into the button of the lift again. It’s lit red but the numbers are counting slowly, the hum of the machinery behind the doors quiet. The hotel is skyscraper tall so the lift could be anywhere. 

He lifts his gaze when Damon comes to a stop beside him and it’s only then that the doors slide open. 

“I saved you a seat,” Damon says, climbing into the lift along with him. 

“Go back to your dinner, Damon,” Graham tells him, resting back against the corner of the lift. It’s thankfully empty, Graham doesn’t think he could endure the journey being any more awkward. 

“Nearly ordered for you,” Damon keeps talking, his mouth turning up. “But wasn’t sure if you still liked what I think you like.”

Graham looks at him then, words lodged in his throat. It’s been years since they’d sat around Graham’s kitchen table eating egg and chips or squeezed into a pokey kitchen somewhere devouring dinner after a show, all washed down with a bottle of cheap malbec. 

“A lot’s changed since we used to eat together every day,” Damon mutters to himself, shaking Graham from his thoughts. 

“We had dinner yesterday,” Graham reminds him, unsure if Damon’s bullshitting him right now. 

Damon grins, his eyes bright but Graham is still in the dark. 

They finally stop on Graham’s floor and he gets out, Damon following him closely. His room is somewhere else on this floor but Graham’s not exactly sure what number. He doesn’t keep track of him like that anymore.

“Come downstairs with me,” Damon says again, catching at Graham’s elbow as he stops at his door. 

“I’ll just get room service,” Graham declines and pushes his door open. His hand hesitates on the door handle and Damon follows him in, his gaze flickering around the room quickly before he’s back at looking at Graham. He doesn’t look like he has any intention of bringing Graham downstairs.

“I want to make sure you’re okay after today,” he blurts out and Graham laughs, forces his face to be neutral even though he sort of wants to screw it up in annoyance. 

Damon’s never going to let this go, just because he’s finally been there to witness one of his moods because they’re suddenly spending so much time together. Graham rolls his neck, feeling the tension at the base of it. 

“I’m fine about today,” he says. “Honestly. The music sounds promising. It felt good to be back in a studio.”

“Felt like old times,” Damon responds. They’re sort of loitering in the foyer part of the room, a strange limbo where they’re walking on eggshells. 

Graham rolls his shoulders and drops his key card onto the shelf beside the door. “Maybe,” he answers, half-heartedly. He’s still processing the entire week and what it felt like. It’ll probably be days and weeks before he actually knows what to make of it. To know if he really enjoyed it or not. If it was worth the palpable anxiety that sits heavy on his chest. 

“I love you,” Damon murmurs, his voice dropped down low. “You know that.”

They used to throw this around so lightly when they were younger. A throwaway comment to a journalist or when one of them had came up with a really cool part of a song. 

They stopped saying it by the time Graham started to properly mean it. When it wasn’t a _I love you_ anymore and had become a _I’m_ in _love with you_ and then suddenly, they weren’t talking at all any more, days and weeks spent apart from each other until even when they were in the same room they couldn’t even find it in themselves to meet each other’s eye. 

Graham purposely meets Damon’s gaze now, swallowing down the unbridled panic building in his chest. It’s like some sort of clarification that they’ve grown up. He isn’t sure if there’s a distinction anymore. There’s still a deep longing in his gut, hidden down under years of loneliness and ignorance. He thinks it will probably always be there, something tying them together forever. 

He’s not surprised when Damon kisses him, his mouth warm and rough as he catches the corner of Graham’s mouth. 

Graham lets out a breath, his shoulders hitting the wall behind them and Damon’s pushing forward, his hand on Graham’s bicep. That’s the only thing that’s different, how Damon’s hand isn’t already up under his shirt or hooking into the back of his jeans. 

Graham used to be wasted when they did this -- when it was just a laugh and something to do when they came off stage or were bored jamming in the studio. He can taste alcohol on Damon’s tongue and for a moment he isn’t sure if he wants to chase it. 

“We shouldn’t do this,” Graham murmurs, breaking away enough so he can breathe. Damon has his eyes closed, his mouth open against Graham’s jaw. It sends a thrill up his spine when he scrapes his teeth along his stubble, his tongue wet. 

“There’s a lot of things we shouldn’t have done,” Damon says, his lips dragging until he can kiss him properly again.

Graham laughs a little bit. “That isn’t what I meant --” but it’s swallowed up by Damon’s mouth, his tongue slipping between his teeth. 

Graham kisses back, his hand sliding over Damon’s hip.

It isn’t until Damon jerks forward, their hips grinding together that Damon seems to realise what they’re doing. 

“Fuck,” he moans, breaking away from Graham abruptly. Graham’s panting and he lifts a hand to push his glasses back up his nose. Damon won’t even meet his eye and Graham feels the first cool curl of dread in his gut. 

“No,” he says, desperately because he can already see Damon drawing away, his eyes going steely. “Don’t do that.”

“We can’t do this,” Damon says, his voice raw. He steps away properly, a shaking hand through his hair. He looks like he needs a cigarette or a drink or both. 

Graham slumps back into the wall and looks away from him. He fucking said that but Damon didn’t listen. 

Damon takes a few paces and then stops. From the corner of his eye, Graham can see the shadow of his feet. He doesn’t look up, just stays pressed up against the wall, his shirt and hair dishevelled. 

All that’s fine when you’re nineteen and can brush it off. It’s not the same when you’re pushing fifty and everything feels more weighted, more sharp, more important.

“Good night,” Damon says and then he’s moving again, the door to Graham’s hotel room closing with a tight, final, snap.

*

They avoid each other the next day. They’ve become masters at it but it still makes Graham feel too tightly wound. A few of the crew seem to notice, giving them a wide berth as if they’ll get ensnared in their row. 

But of course, they haven’t really had a row, and that’s what makes it even more stifling. 

There’s no anger to focus on. Nothing that’s spurning their silence. 

Graham tries to sleep during the flight, his fingers fidgeting with the seatbelt, the window firmly down. Across the aisle, Damon’s lying with his mouth open and Graham stares at him for a moment, his face smoothed out in sleep. 

He’s always been envious of the way that Damon can sleep when they travel like this. He seems entirely unself-conscious in the way he’s sprawled across the seat, his legs splayed under his jacket. Graham always over thinks it, worries he’ll say something stupid in his sleep or miss something crucial as they pass over the Java Sea. 

They soundcheck quickly, going into it with the aim to get the job done. Graham tinkers with his pedals and messes about with his amps as the techs up his mics and properly re-work the sound. Dave’s battering out a new rhythm on his drums and soon they’re running through something from the session, the unfamiliarity of it making something flutter in Graham’s belly. 

It sounds amazing reverberated back to them from the huge speakers. The stadium is empty, the sun beating down on them and making them sweat but Graham can already feel the vibration of a few thousand strong crowd, the hum of his amps through the soles of his feet. 

The song unfolds nearly like another jam, Graham throwing in some flyaway riffs that rip out of his speakers and take his breath away. He can’t quite remember if that’s how they recorded it during the week but he finds he doesn’t care, the noise sounding good enough that it doesn’t matter. 

He still finds himself looking up for Damon’s approval but he finds him avoiding his gaze again, staring off at their guitar tech who is running the cabling across the front of the stage. His foot is going though and Graham grins, watching as Damon’s left foot keeps time with the music. 

Graham’s buoyed up by how good the songs sound blasting out on stage through dinner and a few interviews. He nearly wishes he could play them for the crowd tonight but he knows they can’t. 

It would be foolish to announce that they’re working on something properly, rumours seemingly unwilling to be shaken from their backs. 

When they get on stage later and the roar of the crowd blunts any nerves in Graham’s belly, Damon is a completely different person. 

It’s amazing, the energy as he bounces off them, disappearing into the crowd for a hot moment, Graham fighting a grin behind his microphone. He dances with Alex, yells over crashing cymbals at Dave and looms close to Graham when he’s not singing, his eyes locked on Graham’s face. 

It’s one of the things he loves about being part of this tour -- even more than the exhilaration of being on stage, of hearing your music roaring out of skyhigh speakers -- there’s something special in how the four of them are whittled down to just the music and them, united on stage no matter what other shit is going on off of it. 

He soaks it up, meets Damon’s gaze like a challenge. It makes his chest feel too tight, all his energy going through his fingertips into his guitar and out into the air through his amp. 

Damon grins back, his eyes bright. Graham can feel the heat radiate off him, see the sweat on his hairline, on his neck. His t-shirt clings to him. Over his shoulder, Alex is grooving in his shorts with his bass, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. 

Graham wants a smoke, wants to feel Damon’s mouth against his again, wants to taste wine on his tongue. He never wants him to look away, never wants to get off the stage. But at the same time it’s nearly too intense, the same way it always is between the two of them, frenetic energy bouncing off them with no place to go. 

Damon slides off stage like he usually does. There’s a quick, albeit genuine, thank you and then he’s gone into the shadows of stage-left and that’s it. There’s no bow, there’s no chance to sling an arm around him and feel the body heat skin-on-skin. 

Graham watches him go, breathless. He waves to the crowd, soaks in that final glance out over the sea of waving arms and then follows Damon off stage. 

And back to reality. 

*

He won’t know until later, but the idea comes to him in the car. He’s idling in a queue of traffic outside the school when a riff comes into his head. He taps it out on the steering wheel, frowning when it seems familiar. He can’t seem to place it, the sequence going round and round at the forefront of his mind. 

“I won’t be home for tea,” Pepper says, the door already opening. He hasn’t even stopped the car properly and she’s already halfway out of the door. 

“Okay,” Graham says, a sigh huffing out of his nose. She throws him a smile over her shoulder and the door is slamming shut. “Bye,” he murmurs, uselessly. 

It takes Graham another ten minutes to edge back into the stream of traffic. He turns the radio down, the inane chatter of Chris Evans grating, the sudden silence in the car feels deafening for a moment. 

It’s been weeks since he was last on stage and even then, it didn’t make him feel alive again. More of a slog if he’s honest with himself. It was a futtery solo acoustic show, nothing like all those months ago when they finally finished the last of the stuff with the band. 

He’d watched the rest of the boys go back to their lives, quickly getting lost in their own projects and interests. He’s been up to see Alex and was sent home with another picnic basket full of cheese, enough to see him to Christmas. Damon’s new album languishes in his glove compartment, the plastic still wrapped around it. 

In comparison, Graham’s life has halted slightly. Stalled. 

He cleans the kitchen when he gets home, tips out the teapot and wipes crumbs from in front of the toaster. He’s half way through unloading the dishwasher when he realises he’s humming the riff again. It’s niggled it’s way down into the back of his head, rooted itself in the knobs of his spine and right down into his toes. 

It’s still there by the time he’s making lunch. His fingers itching to play it. 

His guitar has a layer of dust when he picks it up. It makes him pause -- he hadn’t thought it had been that long since he’d played it. He settles down at the back of his studio, sinking into the worn sofa. He used to sit there for hours a day, all week and tinker about with his guitar, his fingers sore when he was learning to finger pick, his neck aching from being hunched over. 

The riff flies out of his hand like he knew it would. His fingers move across the fret like he’s played it before and it’s only now that he’s hearing it on his telecaster that he knows he _has_ played it before. 

Memories of Hong Kong flood back to him. He moves his fingers and plays something else but it doesn’t sound right, not fluid enough. He has no idea what he would’ve played after the riff, the sessions just hours of jams that flowed into one another. It feels like a distant memory. 

He messes around until it’s after dark, his fingers aching from not playing that much in so long. He thinks about it all evening, only half paying attention to conversations and what he’s doing. 

The next day is Saturday but Niamh still answers. 

It spills out of him without him properly planning. His chest feels tight and he squeezes his fingers around the phone, pressing the corner of it too tight to his ear. 

“Yeah, I can find out where they are,’ Niamh answers when he asks if she has the masters from the studio, sounding a little unsure. “You’ll have to speak to Damon about it though.”

Graham swallows. “I know.”

Niamh stays quiet on the other end. She’s known them for years now and sometimes it’s a bit scary how much history she’s been let in on. A part of him wishes that she would just offer to do it for him. She’s in nearly constant contact with Damon through all of his different projects. It’s the easy way out, though, and Graham knows that it would be the wrong route to go down.

“He’s finishing off touring his album from now til Christmas,” she says, still sounding unsure. “He goes away the start of October. I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.”

Graham snorts and Niamh finally breaks, laughing down the phone. Sometimes, everything around them is still so fragile that they tip-toe around it. Graham can’t help but wonder what Damon’s told her. 

“I’ll let you know what he says,” Graham decides, biting the bullet. 

It feels like a weight lifted off his shoulders once he gets her go-ahead but it still takes him a few days to arrange to meet him, nervous anxiety making it hard to pick up the phone. 

It’s daunting in all sorts of new ways for Graham to be the one taking charge for once. He tells himself that Damon will be glad of it, glad for all that pressure to be taken off him this time but hates that it feels like he’s asking permission. 

It’s blustery as Graham stands outside the door of a coffee shop in West London. The seasons properly changing into autumn. It just reminds him how much time is passing and how little he feels like he’s achieved this year. He’s watching people mill by and doesn’t even realise it’s Damon standing beside him until he’s wrapped up in a stiff hug. 

“Hi,” Graham murmurs into his neck, taken aback slightly. They stand stiffly before Graham melts into him more, pressing close enough until his glasses are digging into his face. Damon grins at him when he pulls back and waits until Graham goes first through the door. 

The barista gives them an odd look as Graham orders a coffee and green tea. Damon is reading something on his phone, a cigarette tucked behind his ear. He has a faded navy cap under his arm and isn’t wearing a coat even though it’s drizzily outside. 

Graham feels hot in his parka. 

They find a table in the corner, away from prying eyes but close enough to the window to peer out at the world gliding by. It’s that sort of limbo time of day -- just after lunch but before everyone gets out of work. That time where it seems incrementally quieter until the pavements are awash with people again. 

Damon sits with his back to the window, his head ducked low as he takes a gulp of his coffee. His phone is sitting on the table but he ignores it, his gaze now completely on Graham. 

“What’s wrong?”

Graham takes a sharp breath. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Well, spit it out then. You’ve got that look on your face.”

Graham bites at his lip, fighting the urge to grin. Damon’s bluntness can be refreshing sometimes but it doesn’t make him feel any less nervous.

“Can I not just invite you out for a coffee?” Graham asks, putting it off. He wishes he had got something to eat, a scone or something, just so he could pull it apart on the plate. 

Damon levels him with a look. “We don’t just go for _coffee_ anymore. Come on, what is it?”

“It’s about Hong Kong,” Graham starts. Damon’s eyebrows rise and for once, there’s an unreadable look on his face. Graham swallows, his mouth feeling dry. His tea is too hot but he takes a drink of it anyway. 

“What about it?” Damon asks, his voice dropping low. Graham gets a flash of him pinning him against a wall, his voice in his ear and he blinks away, unable to look at him properly without seeing it, without feeling the phantom heat of his breath against his mouth. 

Thinking of Hong Kong dredges up all sorts of thoughts he’s trying very hard to forget. 

“I was thinking about all the songs we did. It’s been ages now but I thought maybe I’d take a look at it,” Graham mutters, playing with the handle of his teacup. He rolls his tongue behind his teeth, teases where it’s a little burnt. 

Damon doesn’t say anything. Graham still can’t look up so he just keeps talking. “I thought maybe it could work out nice. We did some really good work there and I think that maybe this is our chance --” Graham chances a glance up and then quickly looks away again --”to put something out properly. A lot of people don’t really know what we are anymore, what we were-- the last album was --”

“The last album --” Damon starts and Graham has to look up to interpret his tone. 

“Was a long time ago,” Graham fills in. Damon’s shoulder relaxes and it’s only then that Graham realises that he’s nearly wound as tense as he is. 

Damon’s face looks impassive for a long moment and Graham, heart in his throat, thinks he’s going to say no. 

It would make sense. It shouldn’t be surprising. Why would Damon let Graham take all that responsibility after what he’d done to him all these years. Why would he let Graham take anything and try and make it into something new. Graham steels himself for the inevitable wave of disappointment. 

“That sounds like a great idea,” Damon says slowly and when Graham looks up, he’s smiling. 

“Really?” Graham asks, finding himself smiling too. 

Damon laughs, head thrown back. His jaw looks sharp, spackled with stubble. His hand lands on Graham’s forearm, palm warm through the knit of his jumper. 

“Rather you than me. There’s got to be hours of stuff to go through.”

_Good_ Graham thinks. The more the better. The more to make his mind work. 

He must look visibly relieved because Damon’s hand squeezes, his expression turning serious for a moment. “Did you think I’d say no?”

Graham shrugs, lifting his other hand to bite at his nail beds. “I haven’t exactly got the best track record,” he says leadingly. 

Damon gives him a soft smile, something that Graham’s always thought was reserved just for him. It’s been ages since he’s seen it -- years, probably, since the last genuine one. It makes something settle in his gut, warm and safe. “Of course you can do it. I trust you, Graham.”

Graham swallows and looks away. Damon knows how to be sincere when he wants to be and it’s nearly disarming, jarring how intune they are. Like they’re just reading each other’s minds at this point. 

His free hand fiddles with the handle of the teacup. The other turns over so Damon can slide his into it, their fingers squeezing together. 

*

October brings the rain and the recording masters in a cardboard box the size of his hand in the post. 

He waits on it every morning, pouring tea and buttering toast and shuffling Pepper off to school with one eye on the letter box. When it arrives, he’s like an overexcited puppy, immediately driving over to the studio to break it open. 

“You’re eager,” Stephen Street grins at him when he appears on his doorstep. Graham shrugs, suddenly feeling self conscious. Streetie snorts and lets him in. 

The music feels familiar and brand new all at the same time. There’s entirely too much of it. Stephen raises his eyebrows as it loads onto his system, the files stretching out across the programme. 

It should feel a bit intrusive, listening to it all for the first time with an outside opinion but Graham lets himself relax, finds himself voicing his thoughts just for Stephen to bounce them back at him excitedly. 

“It’s good,” he reassures Graham at the end of the day. They’re both too wired from so much coffee and the adrenaline from listening to it all at once. Graham nearly feels the pull to stay at it, worried about leaving it for the weekend and losing this new found enthusiasm. 

“We’re old men now,” Stephen reminds him, walking him out to his car. It’s dark outside, the air chilly and smelling of burning peat.”It’ll all still be there in the morning.” 

Graham nods, forces himself to relax. That’s what pissed him off in the first place, that neverending feeling of tunes being overworked, teased too much until they sounded like nothing at all.

So, Graham sets a steady pace. They work hard at it, chipping it into chunks. Graham brings his telecaster and records riffs over the recordings, tinkers with melodies and harmonies and designating motifs in the music like he’s never done before with Blur stuff. 

He smuggles Dave in on the weekends to get the drums down properly on a full drum kit, Graham’s ears ringing from the blast of them. Alex comes for a few days to throw on wobbling basslines and the songs all begin to take shape, Alex grinning at him through the glass. 

“They sound great,” Alex tells him when they sneak out the back for a proper cigarette. He’s balancing on the edge of the step, falling back onto his feet before climbing up again. Graham stands with his back against the crumbling brick and thinks of how twenty years ago they were probably doing the same, Alex never seemingly able to sit still back then either. “What does Damon think?”

Graham glances up at him and Alex breaks into a rue smile. “Ah,” he says, leaning in to stub out the end of his cigarette against the wall next to Graham’s shoulder. The brick is scorched with hundreds of cigarettes before him. “Don’t worry about it. What’s the worst he can say?” 

*

When the time comes, Graham worries he’s made a tit of himself. He phones Damon twice, cancelling a meeting with a bullshit excuse about taking the dog to the vet and the second time he stumbles over words on his answering machine until Damon tells him to catch a grip and go round to Thirteen on Thursday morning. 

He gets anxious about it, tangles himself up in endless what ifs and buts. What if Damon doesn’t like this bit, or this bit. Or this bit? He takes to listening to the instrumentals in the car, turning it down when he’s stopped at red lights in fits of increasing paranoia and wishing he’d left in a twang of a guitar here or a roll of the drums there. 

Pepper regards him suspiciously over dinner, how dark it is outside a testament to how late their mealtimes have been getting lately. He’s hardly seen her the past few weeks and the guilt eats at him. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“Nothing,” he says defensively, still itching to disappear into the studio and listen to them over again. He pushes vegetables around his plate until she disappears into her room with an exasperated huff and leaves him to it. 

It feels a bit like a test, back to when he was fourteen and had piano compositions to rattle out before an examiner. He dreams about losing the tapes down the back of the sofa, of them flying out the window as he goes over the Westway, or them being ate by the player, the thin, sepia tape spilling out of them in ribbons. 

Of course, nothing like that would ever happen because the entire album is tucked in the breast pocket of his shirt on a USB the size of his thumb. 

They both mess around for most of the morning. Graham fiddling with the sound board and Damon fucking about with a keyboard for something else he’s working on -- one of twelve things probably. They’ve had two cups of coffee each in quick succession so they’re both jittery, the trepidation morphing into something even worse as they bounce around the empty studio on empty stomachs.

“Right,” Damon says, finally stepping up. “Are we going to do this?”

Graham doesn’t even have to answer, just spinning in the chair and loading the disc into the system. 

“Crank it up,” Damon says, sliding back onto the long sofa that’s tucked up against the back wall of the studio. 

“You don’t want headphones or something?” Graham asks, his hands hovering over a pair that’s hooked onto the side of the table. 

Damon levels him with a look and sprawls across the sofa more. Graham watches him as the first track starts and then looks away. He doesn’t know if watching him is better or worse. He looks bored the way he’s lying, as if he’s not even listening at all but he knows Damon better than that. 

“It sounds just like you,” Damon murmurs. Graham inches closer. He was already leaning towards him but now he’s so close to the edge of the chair, he’s nearly falling off. 

He had thought Damon would wait until the end to give an opinion. It’s unnerving that he’s doing this type of commentary, that there’s nothing more critical or cynical. Just Damon’s unfiltered thoughts. 

“In a good way?” Graham asks hopefully. 

Damon smirks, glancing up at him. He moves then, sits up more alert. He sets his elbows to his knees and closes his eyes. 

Graham can’t stop watching him now, taking in the tiny cues and tics in his expression when he likes something -- the curl of a chord, the running rhythm of the extra bits he’s had Alex and Dave in to do. If there are lyrics, they’re rudimentary. Damon’s nonsense layered over gritty guitar, Graham’s harmonies slid in like an afterthought. 

On _Spaceman_ , Graham reaches for his hand. Damon looks up abruptly, his shoulders hunched over as he listens. It’s one of the tracks that has more lyrics than the rest, Damon’s voice sounding echoy and forlorn. They hadn’t had many other ideas but the melancholy tone when they recorded it and Graham’s taken it deeper in the edit, twisting the rhythm with noise from the end of the recording. It’s a proper mix of the entire hour long jam and sounds much more darker than the original. 

Damon squeezes at his fingers as they listen to it together. In the outro, he lets go of his hand and he’s on his feet abruptly, pacing the length of the studio. Graham sits back and watches him, a tiny part of him worried he’s about to storm out. 

“And these are all the lyrics we’ve got?” he asks, turning on the spot. He reaches for a guitar that’s hanging over the door into the booth and slings it over his chest. 

“A few lines of nonsense,” Graham admits. He had toyed with the idea of keeping the lyrics in, Damon’s voice husky and slightly strained over the music. He doesn’t tell him how often he replayed them, listening to the whistle of his voice, the even tone in his fancy headphones. 

It had been when was bouncing over roads on his way out to Kent, the city slipping away from him and replaced with more green that he decided to keep them in. Sun breaking through his windshield as the key changed. 

Damon grins at him, looking wicked. He fits his fingers over the strings and tries to strum along. He turns when he’s in front of Graham, gives him a little wiggle. 

Graham laughs, his stomach twisting. “You like it then?”

“Yes!” Damon says, shaking the guitar at him. “Fuck! This means I have to write for it now.”

“Were you secretly hoping they’d all sound a bit crap?”

He means it as a joke, all anxiety dissipating now that Damon is grooving across the room to a song Graham’s tentatively called _going local_ because of Damon’s drawling lyric on it, the only one that’s comprehensible on that particular track. 

Damon smiles at him fondly before he’s ducking in, both hands going to Graham’s jaw. He tilts Graham’s head out of the way so he doesn’t get chinned by the guitar and presses his lips to Graham’s head in a quick kiss. 

“I knew they’d never sound crap,” Damon says, dancing away like he hasn’t just sent Graham’s heart pounding. 

It’s as close as they’re going to get to revisiting what happened in Hong Kong. Part of him is glad but that deep sinking hole of longing is burrowing down in his chest as he watches the back of Damon’s head as he bops along, his elbows sticking out as he grips the guitar now he’s given up on playing it. 

He can’t see his expression so he lets his gaze travel down his back, catching the way his shirt is a bit rumpled at his waistband, how his arse looks wiggling in his jeans. He’d been too busy avoiding looking at Damon earlier to take all this in. 

They’re older now, far gone past this type of silliness but it makes Graham grin, feeling like he’s twelve again and watching Damon make a twat of himself across the playground, or twenty and acting a twat along with him. It makes a laugh bubble unexpectedly out of his mouth. 

Damon turns and Graham wrenches his gaze back up to his face. His tooth glints in the faded light in the studio. He nearly looks like a villain, his face twisted into a predatory smirk. 

“Fuck,” Damon swears, his hand going to his hair. He looks nearly feral. “We need to do this.”

*

Graham follows the arrows through the labyrinth of corridors, his heart in his throat at the sound of the crowd somewhere behind him. Even when it’s not for him, the anticipation for a gig still gets his blood pounding. 

Damon looks nervous when Graham finally finds him.

“Oh dear,” Graham can’t help but say when Damon looks up at him.

“Graham,” he says, as if Graham’s here to offer him some sort of relief. He grips at Graham’s elbows and tows him back into the dressing room properly. There’s plenty of people milling about -- guests, other performers but Damon only has eyes for him. “I’m gonna be sick.”

Graham wrinkles his nose. “Nothing changes, does it?”

Damon’s eyes flicker shut and then Graham’s pushing him onto the sofa in the middle of the dressing room, glancing round for a bin. 

He places it between Damon’s feet and sits down beside him, a hand going to his back. 

Some of the crew look on amused, others bewildered. Graham can tell the ones who have been touring with Damon for a long time by the sliding scale of how distressed they look at the sight of Damon retching into a wastepaper basket ten minutes before he’s due on stage. 

The dressing room empties quickly soon after he starts, the chatter drifting down the corridor and leaving them alone.

“Why the nerves tonight?” Graham asks, knowing that Damon’s been on tour for a while now. It isn’t his first performance. It isn’t even the first time he’s played the Royal Albert Hall. Graham had got the message a few days ago, a throw away call checking if he was in the country and if he fancied doing something a little bit special for the encore. 

Graham had agreed. He’d already been planning to come and see him but he supposes it’s a bit more fun this way. It had been weeks since he’d heard from him. A stretch of silence after letting him hear the demos he had made. 

Graham bites down the little voice at the back of his head that goads him that he’s desperate to do whatever will have him interacting with Damon again, clinging on to it now that his role in the making the album has basically finished and the ball is back in Damon’s court.

Damon mutters something, spitting into the bin. 

“Hmm?” Graham hums, bending forward to hear him. He tries not to wrinkle his nose at the acrid smell of sick. 

“Just a big deal,” Damon says, sitting back. He looks pale, a little sweaty around his forehead. Graham’s hand gets trapped behind him as he sinks into the back of the sofa. He can feel the head radiating from his back. 

Graham grins at him, reassuringly. He presses the pads of his fingertips against Damon’s shirt but he doesn’t move, doesn’t seem to mind Graham touching him like that. 

“Do you remember how we’d not get nervous back before?” Damon asks, leadingly. 

Graham stills his hand. Of course he remembers. It’s one of the few things he could never forget. They used to find a dirty corner in the green room and snog their butterflies away. Or punch each other. Any way to get the excess energy burnt off and keep their minds off the crowd baying for blood out front. It was especially bad in America, when they both knew it was going to be shite anyway. They bit and scratched and picked at each other until they were ready for it, shoulders heaving with every breath in the wings.

“Off you go,” Graham says, his fingers pressing into his back again. He purposely ignores his last statement which makes Damon finally smile. Graham leans into him, their shoulders pressing into the back of the sofa. “Go on. I’ll see you later.”

“Are you going to watch?” Damon asks, his eyes sliding over to him. There’s finally colour back on his face.

Graham laughs, pushing him properly up off the sofa. “What else am I here for?” 

Damon rolls his eyes, looking a little lost for a moment. Graham claps him on the shoulder and pushes him off in the direction of the stage. 

Damon hesitates by the door before he turns back to him. “G’is a kiss, then?”

Graham barks out a bright laugh but his heart starts to race all the same. “You taking the piss?”

“Would I do that?” Damon asks, smirk growing. 

Graham rolls his eyes and leans in, letting Damon suck on his bottom lip for a moment. It’s as if his heart stops, the din from the crowd melting away. There are people out in the corridor yelling and laughing, the band and the rest of the guests Damon’s begged to come tonight but Graham can’t hear them, his fingers twisting in the hem of Damon’s shirt. 

Damon pulls away, his eyes glittering. Just like that, it looks like all the stress has slipped away. He gives Graham a once over before he’s spinning and heading down the corridor to the stage. 

Graham watches him go, his tongue slipping out to lick out over his lip before he follows him like he promised. 

Later, when Graham drags a seat on stage with him after the encore and the crowd roars in appreciation, Damon gives him a private smile from over the top of his piano and it feels right again. Everything slots into place. Graham finds his hands at home on his guitar, the heat from the room and the buzz from the audience. 

The room is stunning but he can’t drag his eyes off Damon laughing at him over the top of his piano and even though Dave and Alex aren’t there, Graham feels at home. 

*

“What’s going on?” Graham asks, opening the door. He’s a little surprised to see Damon there. They haven’t spoke in weeks except for a very brief exchange where Damon hinted at inviting him to Australia with him and coming home via a quick drop back into Hong Kong. Graham had declined feeling like he was burning some sort of bridge doing so but when Damon looked a little relieved, he knew it was the right decision. 

He didn’t think he’d be home so soon. “Can I come in?” Damon asks, peering up at him from under a woolen hat. Graham’s in his pyjamas and for a split second feels vulnerable as the cool night air soaks through the cotton. 

“I wanted to play you something,” Damon tells him, brushing past him into the house, anyway. He’s got a woolen jumper on that matches the hat and it smells of coal and smoke and winter. 

Graham shuts the door tightly and follows him. Damon’s already two or three steps up the stairs, the fairy lights Pepper’s strung up twinkling at his elbow. 

“Are we not doing this next week?” Graham asks him, following him up into the half darkness. 

Damon says something but he’s already winding up along the landing towards the studio. Graham snorts, it’s past midnight. He thinks it could’ve waited. Graham was ready to sink into bed with a cup of tea and forget how quiet the house seems after all the hubbub of Christmas. 

“Where’s the lights in this place?” Damon complains from the darkened doorway. Graham laughs again, his hand tapping along the wall for the switch. Damon’s fingers overlay his and then disappear quickly as the overhead light snaps on. 

“Hong Kong was good then?” Graham asks, following him into the room. Damon looks agitated, like he’s hyped up on something. He turns, his eyes flitting to Graham and then away again. He shakes off his coat and throws it over the back of the computer chair, paces for a few steps before he’s walking off into the corner to grab an acoustic guitar that Graham’s got propped up. 

When he sits down, Graham can see how the agitation is actually giving way to nervousness. It’s usually the other way about -- Graham unsettled by the vulnerability of playing his songs for someone else. He hates the visceral feeling of singing his own songs on an acoustic, tries to get out of it more often than not now. It’s one of the reasons he’s been twiddling his thumbs for the best part of the past two years. 

Damon has got a strange outer confidence when it comes to matters like this, his internalised emotions often tucked up tight within. Graham can see them now in every shake of his fingers, the hunch of his shoulders.

Damon licks his lips and settles on the edge of the sofa. Graham takes a seat at the computer, places his cup on the desk so he can’t fiddle with anything. He stays quiet to let Damon come round in his own time. 

It’s chilly up here this late at night. He hasn’t been in the studio for a couple of days, the air stale with the door shut. Graham curls his toes into the plush rug he’d hidden up here the last time he’d decided to hoard all his belongings.

“I wrote something,” Damon finally says, looking up at him. He pulls the guitar over his knee and looks at Graham expectantly. 

Graham nods. He’s seen snippets from when Damon was in Hong Kong, a few seconds of a video that were sent late at night or before he got on the plane. After that, it had went quiet. He’s been home a few days but Graham hadn’t bothered him -- all of them have enough on with their families at the moment. 

It’s that strange limbo of time between Christmas and New Year. Graham doesn’t even know what day it is. 

“Let’s hear it then,” Graham says, his voice quiet. Below him, the house creaks in night silence. 

His stomach turns over as Damon starts to pick at the strings. It’s amazing how familiar it sounds, the simple melody on acoustic guitar reminding Graham of the fuller version on a disc somewhere between his house and Damon’s studio. He rolls his fingers quietly against his wrist and thinks of the corresponding chords he’d play back to him. 

“And the bright rays we got in summertime,” Damon starts softly, his eyes downcast. “Seemed like a breath of fresh air back in the summertime.”

Graham’s mouth feels dry and he fights the urge to reach for his mug. He doesn’t think he could move if he wanted to though, his eyes transfixed on the slope of Damon’s shoulders, the movement of his fingers on the strings. It’s just one chord but Graham can close his eyes and be feel the rest in his bones. The crisp sound of a tambourine, the click of drums, the whine of a guitar. 

Graham had gotten most of this track finished with just Damon humming the melody, the melancholy motif weaving through it with no lyrics whatsoever, not even the nonsense Damon normally sprouts in jams. 

“When we were more like brothers, that was years ago,” Damon sings, his voice gathering confidence. He has his eyes closed, his eyelashes fanned out over his cheek. He licks his lips, his head cocking to the side. 

The entire song is beautiful, soft and heartfelt. It reminds Graham of Damon’s parents house and the smell of the grass in the summertime through his window. Damon would bundle him in after school and they’d eat dinner in front of the telly before his mum would chuck them out into the garden for the long evenings. 

They’d trip over the soft ground of the riverbank under their feet, he can feel the scrape of rough bark under his fingertips and, later, how they’d press together under shaded green boughs. 

It makes his breath catch and he can only stare as Damon winds the song through _I'm losing you again, I'm running out of heartache_. 

Damon opens his eyes for the last few lyrics, pierces him with a stare as his fingers finish picking. The note hangs in the reverb of the room, lost somewhat with the open door and the buzz of the fluorescent bulb. Graham’s breathing is audible. He can hear it over the thump of his heartbeat. 

“I wanted you to hear it first,” Damon starts. “Before --”

Before Streetie or Dave or Alex. Before it’s sung twice through a microphone in front of engineers and paned glass. Before it’s fixed onto a track that’s already finished before it was even started.

“It’s lovely,” Graham says, the only thing that can form into coherent words. 

Damon’s face falls slightly. “It’s --”

“It’s me,” Graham says and then shakes his head. “It’s us.”

“Yeah.”

They stare at each other for a few moments. They’ve rarely been this honest recently -- just brief snatches before one of them pulls away, both of them too protective of the new foundations they’ve freshly laid to properly attempt at anything more. 

Graham’s on his feet before he’s really aware he’s doing it and looking down at Damon, his breathing shaky. 

“Do you like it?” Damon asks, his mouth quirking up. 

“No,” Graham says but Damon’s smile is growing because they both know what he means. He doesn’t like how that’s them now, how they’re best at communicating through lyrics and distorted sliding chords, that they’re at their best when they’ve guitars and a piano squeezed between them, keeping them together. Keeping them apart. 

Damon doesn’t offer to scrap it. Doesn’t say that they’ll not stick it on the album because they both know that would be wrong. The music has always came first. More and more, the most revealing lyrics end up out there for the world to hear now. There are songs that Graham deliberately doesn’t listen to, can’t bring himself to learn but he loves it when Damon’s like that. When he’s offering a little glimpse into whatever is going on inside his head, inside his heart. 

Damon slides the guitar onto the sofa and stands up too. It’s all the more intimidating in the sloping roof of the studio, the way it seems to bring them closer together. Graham swallows, glances up at Damon from under where his hair is too long again. 

It’s been a long time coming, they’ve been teetering on the fine line between them since they started talking again all those years ago. It’s morphed and shaped to fit the older versions of themselves, softer where it was once too sharp, more meaningful because they hadn’t just dove straight back in. 

It feels earned. 

Damon’s mouth brushes over Graham’s and he melts into it, his arm winding around Damon’s shoulder until they’re pressed chest to chest. 

They’re being coy about it. Shy nearly. Graham can feel his pulse hammering in his throat and he kisses him deeper, a hand coming up to feel across Damon’s jaw, tilting his head properly. 

Damon lets out a moan against his mouth, lips parting so they’re kissing properly, tongues licking against each other. 

It’s bizarre how familiar it feels. How everything slots into place as they press together, filling out the spaces missing in each other. 

“Down?” Damon murmurs against Graham’s mouth. 

Graham pulls away, his eyebrows rising. “Down?”

Damon laughs, his eyes brightening. “Downstairs,” he clarifies. He looks excited, Graham bites his lip, watching as Damon’s eyes trace his mouth. 

It’ll be all they’re asked about, Graham suspects. Yet another song that’s been written about him, about his and Damon’s relationship.

Except, they won’t talk about this bit. 

Damon manoeuvres him through the room until Graham’s falling onto the bed, Damon crawling over him. 

It’s like being young all over again. Damon coaxes sighs and laughs and moans out of him like he was made for it. Like that’s his sole job on this earth. Graham gives into it, arches his back so he can press his belly and his hips and his pelvis up into the sturdy weight of Damon’s front. He chases his mouth, his tongue between his teeth. It feels too easy to run his hand down Damon’s side, to slide his fingers under the hem of his shirt, to tug on the worn belt loops of his jeans. 

It’s clear that they’re not young though. Damon rolls over onto his side when Graham’s mouth feels numb, he snuffles a laugh into the pillow behind Graham’s ear and they edge out of their clothes with a new sense of self awareness that they didn’t have when they were young. 

“Don’t go all shy on me,” Damon pleads and Graham laughs up at the ceiling, kicking off his trousers and turning into him. 

“I’m not sure that will ever change,” Graham warns him, catching him in a kiss before he can say anything stupid back. Graham keeps his hand on Damon’s shoulder, his fingers pressing into muscle and the jut of his collarbone.

Damon’s hands slide over his skin, hardly stopping. It’s nearly frantic, the press of the pads of his fingers into Graham’s hip, the small of his back. His palms sweep down over his arse, clutching him closer. Graham arches into it, shifting until they can grind together. 

Damon groans, his teeth scraping over Graham’s shoulder. It reminds him of being young again. How they’d roll together and get off, barely leaving enough time for each other. It used to be so desperate, both of them too busy driving towards it to take a breath. 

But there’s something more there too. Damon’s hand gentle on Graham’s hip, his tongue hot and wet on his jaw, on his ear, against his mouth. The way he moans Graham’s name against his throat, his hip, on the inside of his thigh. 

There are long moments where Graham can’t break his gaze away. He used to be too shy for this. Too scared of how intense Damon’s stare could be, how he could feel too vulnerable under his hands and mouth. 

But now he drinks it in, too worried he’ll not get the chance again. 

Damon meets him in every look, his pupils blown wide. Graham’s can feel the thump of Damon’s pulse under his hand, under his mouth when they press together. Graham’s is hammering just as hard in his chest. It doesn’t start to calm down until Damon’s stopped murmuring his name and he’s licking the taste of come out of Damon’s mouth. 

“What do we do now?” Graham asks, what feels like hours later. Damon’s leg is heavy over Graham’s thigh and they’ve pulled the duvet up over to keep out the cool winter draught that’s slipping in under the door. 

“Find a cigarette, somewhere,” Damon answers, his voice hoarse. 

Graham laughs, turning his head on the pillow to look at him. The lamp light casts a shadow over the side of his face that makes him look younger. He’s not going to push it. He doesn’t want to think about this being a one time thing. 

Damon sighs, rolling over onto his side. He hooks his knee over Graham’s leg and tugs him into a cuddle. Graham’s palm finds the small of his back, feels out the knobs of his spine. He’s still hot to touch, tacky from sweat. 

“We finish the album,” Graham whispers, mouth moving across any skin he can reach. 

Damon sighs quietly, hand cupped on his jaw to draw him in and breathe a _yes_ against his lips.


End file.
